


Possession

by CaitlinFairchild



Series: Somatic Theory [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Enthusiastic Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Voyeurism, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s fingers leave Sherlock’s hair and he settles back into his well-worn chair. Arousal is flooding Sherlock’s amygdala, lighting his nerves on fire, making his skin tingle and burn with need. He squirms a bit against the bite of the restraints. </p><p>John’s face darkens, grows stern. “Settle, you,” he rumbles warningly. He takes a sip of his tea. “Eyes on the floor.” He sets the tea down and picks up his paper.</p><p>Sherlock gazes at the floorboards, breathes out, stills his mind and waits. As the minutes tick by he finds himself slipping into the dreamy-yet-alert aura of subspace, his entire being subsumed, calmed by the simplicity of this, responsibility lifted from his shoulders, the only thing asked of him is to do exactly what John tells him to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

**Author's Note:**

> Just shameless filthy porn. Though I can't imagine you're surprised by this point.
> 
>  A million thanks to Hidden Lacuna, the best beta in the universe. She makes me infinitely better.
> 
>  Come follow me on Tumblr:  
>    
> [CaitlinIsPiningforJohnlock](http://caitlinispiningforjohnlock.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> or hit me up at CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting. You make my world go round.
> 
> And now, proceeding to the porn.
> 
> ***

Sherlock knows that on most days, John Watson is a calm man. Quiet. Reserved. Polite. Soft-spoken, even.

Some days, however.

Some days, John Watson is one hundred and sixty nine centimeters of snarly, stroppy, short-tempered dickhead in an unfortunate jumper.

Today is undoubtedly one of the latter sort.

Sherlock knows it is almost entirely due to the case they are working. Breaking the counterfeiting ring initially looked like two days of work, perhaps three; then a week turned into eight days turned into ten, and John became more jumpy, more snarly, more irritable with every passing moment.

In short, John Watson isn’t getting any, and it’s not good for his mental health.

The ‘no sex during a case’ rule is ironclad by necessity. Sherlock has finally come to realize that his intimate relationship with John does truly enhance the work, improving his mental processes overall (and that was such a relief, to find he didn’t have to choose between the two loves of his life) but during an active case, he absolutely can’t handle the distraction, absolutely needs to abstain from intimacy to focus on the work at hand. 

So while a case is on, sex (and the slippery slope of physical affection) is off the table. Completely.

John is a good man, and a good partner, and he understands Sherlock. He sees the reasons for the rule, he does, and he acquiesces graciously.

Well, for the first few days.

But after that, it becomes... An Issue. John has quite a high sex drive for a man in his forties, higher than Sherlock’s (though Sherlock finds himself much more enthusiastic towards the entire spectrum of physical intimacy than he initially thought himself capable) and he is habituated to eager, inventive sexual relations on a regular basis. 

A few days, even the better part of a week, and John is understanding. Ten days, though, and his temper is verging on positively nasty.

He’s stomping and rolling his eyes as Sherlock drags him into New Scotland Yard.

“The case is essentially solved,” Sherlock tells him as they enter the building.

“Essentially,” grumbles John sarcastically. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means,” replies Sherlock, “that there may be a connection with the Chinese counterfeiting network we uncovered five months ago. I need to look at the plates again and check for two distinctive identifying marks. All of this I explained to you an hour ago, if you had been capable of paying attention for all of ten seconds.”

“Sherlock,” John says, in a warning tone that clearly indicates a man at the end of his rope, “an hour ago, I was interviewing the banker’s secretary. In fact, I was gone _all afternoon_.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I was talking to the wall then. Not much of a difference in cognitive skills, it would seem.”

(Sherlock may, in fact, be a bit irritable himself. Regular high doses of certain neurochemicals are proving quite addictive.)

“I swear, Sherlock, sometimes you are such an--” John looks away, breathes in, clenches and unclenches his fist. Closes his eyes, exhales.

“Fine,” John snaps. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with, then.”

“Fine,” Sherlock snaps back. “Let’s.”

And it should have been quick, a simple task not taking twenty minutes, except for the fact that the evidence desk is manned by a newly minted PC, a kid who looks like he just learned how to shave within the last week. Additionally, the boy was obviously raised under a rock on a deserted island, for he has never heard the name Sherlock Holmes.

“I’m so sorry, gentlemen,” he squeaks. “If you don’t have proper authorization, I can’t let you in.”

“Phone DI Lestrade,” Sherlock commands imperiously while John rolls his eyes.

Unfortunately, Lestrade has the audacity to be in Blackpool on a minibreak. 

(Sherlock files that fact away for later correlation against Molly’s work schedule in order to confirm a working hypothesis.)

“Call Gregson, then,” he orders the cringing PC.

“Please,” prompts John with undisguised annoyance. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Gregson is at the hospital where his wife has just delivered their second child. Clearly the two of them are not aware of global overpopulation issues.

Sherlock huffs, places his gloved hands on the desk, and leans--no-- _looms_ over the PC, boring down on him with his most withering glare.

The young man is terrified but unmoved. “I’m s-so sorry, Mr. Holmes,” the officer stutters, wide-eyed, “but without proper approval--”

“Sherlock, let’s just forget it for today,” sighs John.

The problem with leaving this task undone, however, is that means the loose ends have not been resolved to Sherlock’s satisfaction. Which means the case is still on. Sherlock’s self-created rules about this sort of thing are, much like Sherlock himself, precise and inflexible.

And right now Sherlock is, if he’s being honest with himself, stroppy and crabby and every bit as ready for this case to be over as John is.

Sherlock peers closely at the young PC, making the man squirm a bit under the intensity of his gaze. 

_Hair product. Groomed eyebrows. Shoulder width suggests considerable time in gym. Remains of club stamp on right hand._

Sherlock realizes there may be an easier way to get what he wants out of that locked room. He adjusts his posture, reframes his body language into... someone open, friendly. _Interested_.

(Possibly Sherlock just wants to get to the evidence. Possibly he wants to annoy John. Possibly he wants to instigate something. Possibly, after ten days of self-enforced celibacy, he just _wants_ , and he doesn’t care what he has to do to get there from here.)

Behind him, John shifts his weight. Sherlock can feel the laser-hot intensity of the glare focused on the back of his neck.

He dips his head, looks at the young PC from under long dark lashes. “Constable ... Laurie, is it?” He holds out a hand and smiles, a small private thing, full of promise. “I fear we’ve got off on the wrong foot, and I apologize. Please, call me Sherlock.”

He can actually _feel_ the subsonic growl in his John’s throat, and the sound lights a hot, dangerous flutter low in his belly.

Sherlock realizes he may have just done something very, very reckless indeed.

***

John is tight, controlled, his face showing no emotion as they slide into the back of a cab.

The spots of colour on his cheeks, however, betray him.

“Are you angry?” Sherlock asks.

“I’m not angry,” John replies.

“I just wanted to get to those plates,” Sherlock begins, “and I chose the most expedient--”

“I’m not angry,” John repeats in a voice utterly devoid of inflection. “And we’re not doing this in the back of a cab.”

“We’re not doing what in the back of a cab?” They had, after all, done lots of things in the backs of cabs. Sherlock is not at all averse to doing some more, though he’s unsure precisely what John has in mind.

“Baker Street,” John says. “Not before. I’ve waited too long, and we’re doing this properly.”

John gazes evenly at him, and there’s a look in his eyes that makes Sherlock feel like he can’t quite take a deep breath.

“All right,” says Sherlock softly, and the two are silent for the rest of the trip.

***

The click of the door is still echoing through the flat when John shoves Sherlock hard up against the corridor wall, forearm against his throat.

“What the hell were you playing at, Sherlock?” John breathes, his voice quiet but full of barely controlled menace.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock stutters.

“Don’t. Even.” John growls, low and dangerous.

“I was simply trying to get into the evidence room. I used the tools at my disposal.”

“You were practically eye-fucking that kid.”

“I wasn’t--”

“You were all. Over. Him. You were acting like you wanted to get on your knees and suck his dick right there at his desk. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Sherlock’s voice is hoarse, ragged from the pressure against his windpipe. “You _are_ angry.”

John backs off a fraction of an inch. “I’m not angry. I am jealous.” He takes off his jacket, leans across Sherlock to hang it on its hook without breaking eye contact. “I am a jealous, possessive man with a gorgeous boyfriend, and I have been patient for ten fucking days, not said a peep about being totally cut off because oh, ‘no sex on a case’ and all that rot, and then I have to stand there and watch you throw yourself at a bloody spotty teenager? I don’t fucking _think so_.”

“He was at least twenty-two,” Sherlock protests, and to his credit, as he’s saying it he realizes that it’s the absolute, wrongest, stupidest possible thing to say.

John’s eyebrows draw together, his lips pressed dangerously thin.

“No, wait,” Sherlock scrambles. “That’s not what I meant to say, listen--”

John places his hands on Sherlock’s chest. Pushes him hard against the wall. “No, you listen,” John growls, his eyes gone nearly black. “I am not angry, but I do. Not. Share. Ever. Not that part of you. Your mind? Your mind belongs out there, to the world. I accept that.” He slips a free hand behind Sherlock’s head, entwines fingers in the sensitive curls at his neck and pulls hard, making Sherlock gasp. “But your body belongs to _me_ ,” he says, his voice deceptively soft but full of menace underneath. “And I won’t have you out there embarrassing me by behaving like a cheap cock-hungry slut.”

Sherlock closes his eyes as a shiver runs through him.

_(John had deduced this one himself, the dark flip side of Sherlock’s praise kink and intense loquacity, discovered how filthy words and degrading names instantly reduce a proud, haughty man to a hot, quivering puddle of submission and need.)_

Sherlock can’t suppress the tiny shamed moan as it escapes his lips, can’t (doesn’t, won’t) stop his hips from moving, from seeking, from pressing his burgeoning erection into the soft bit of flesh over John’s belly.

“Open your eyes, Sherlock,” John orders. “Look at me when I talk to you.” Sherlock complies, looks into irises gone stormy dark, pupils blown wide with desire. The intensity of John’s gaze lands on Sherlock like a blow, like a fist to the solar plexus. 

John’s voice drops to a purring growl. “You love that, don’t you? You love to hear me call you a filthy, shameless whore.” Sherlock just stares at him, wordless as he breathes in shallow ragged gulps, his skin overhot and exquisitely sensitive, his cock straining hard against overly-snug trousers.

“I’m not angry with you,” John murmurs, low and dangerous, “but you need to be disciplined. You need to be reminded who you belong to.” He pulls Sherlock’s head down, brings lips to his ear, makes him shiver with the ghost of hot breath. “Do you need reminding, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, breathy and needy. “Yes, please.”

“Safeword,” John demands.

“Red.”

John releases Sherlock and steps back, leaving him unmoored, adrift. 

“I’m making tea,” he says, and his clipped, no-nonsense tone anchors Sherlock, tethers him to the moment. “Go wash up. I want you naked and on your knees next to my chair in ten minutes.”

John turns and walks into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock’s space without his usual word or two of endearment or praise. It makes a knot of anxiety flare in Sherlock’s chest, an upwelling of uncertainty that somehow fuels the arousal singing in his nerves. He is suddenly overcome by an intense desire to submit, to please, to make John happy with him again.

John is very, very good at this.

Sherlock takes off his coat, hangs it up, and quietly slips into the bathroom to do as he was bid.

***

When a naked and damp Sherlock emerges from the bathroom several minutes later, the curtained windows frame the dark grey of a rainy late afternoon. The yellow glow of the reading lamp is the dim room’s only illumination. 

John is seated in his chair, reading the newspaper. On the side table is a single cup of tea and a plate of toast. On the floor next to him is the small wooden chest from under their bed.

John turns the page of his paper and doesn’t acknowledge Sherlock’s presence as he pads on bare feet to the side of John’s chair. He is hard already, anxiety and anticipation spiking his arousal as he sinks to his knees besides John’s chair and waits.

After a minute John sets his paper aside and picks up the chest, opens the latch, looks inside.

“Turn around,” John says in a quiet, firm voice. “Hands behind your back.”

Sherlock complies.

Practiced fingers circle his neck. The weight of the collar around his neck is a token of John’s possession, an anchor sinking him even deeper into the warm enveloping darkness of subspace.

Something clicks onto the D-ring at the front of his collar. That’s new.

A leash. John has him collared and leashed like an animal. The humiliation of it lights his nerves on fire, shame and desire and submission twisting and building inside of him. He looks down at his cock, so stiff it rises almost flush with his belly, dark red and shiny wet at the slit.

“I bought this a while ago,” John says, and tugs oh-so-gently on the leash. The pressure on his windpipe impedes his breathing only slightly, but Sherlock’s head buzzes and swims nonetheless. He finds the sensation shockingly erotic.

John lets go of the leash, and as Sherlock draws a deeper breath cool metal encircles his wrists. Not the padded cuffs then, or the hemp rope. Real handcuffs, then--one of the many pairs he’s nicked from Lestrade over the years.

“Turn around and face me,” John orders. Sherlock obeys, shuffling awkwardly on his knees until he is again facing John, who sits nonchalant in his chair, as relaxed as if they were watching the ten o’ clock news. He holds the leash--six feet, braided black leather-- loosely in his left hand. John’s right hand reaches out, twists into his hair and pulls, making Sherlock gasp, his eyes watering.

John’s face softens just a fraction, something tender and rapturous peeking through the stony facade.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John, says, loosening his hold and and stroking Sherlock’s unruly curls. “You’re perfect like this. So goddamn gorgeous. Fuck the work, I should keep you like this always.”

John’s fingers leave Sherlock’s hair and he settles back into his well-worn chair. Arousal is flooding Sherlock’s amygdala, lighting his nerves on fire, making his skin tingle and burn with need. He squirms a bit against the bite of the restraints. 

John’s face darkens, grows stern. “Settle, you,” he rumbles warningly. He takes a sip of his tea. “Eyes on the floor.” He sets the tea down and picks up his paper.

Sherlock gazes at the floorboards, breathes out, stills his mind and waits. As the minutes tick by he finds himself slipping into the dreamy-yet-alert aura of subspace, his entire being subsumed, calmed by the simplicity of this, responsibility lifted from his shoulders, the only thing asked of him is to do exactly what John tells him to do.

He is floating for what feels like hours but is likely only a few minutes when John folds the paper and sets it aside. He tugs on the leash firmly, pulling Sherlock to him. It catches him a bit off balance, and he wobbles on his knees to keep from tipping over. John looks at him, smirking a bit at Sherlock’s embarrassed, ungainly awkwardness.

He picks up the mug of tea and holds it to Sherlock’s lips.

“Drink,” he commands, and Sherlock complies. It is made how Sherlock likes it, much lighter and sweeter than John prefers. Gratitude and affection wash over him at this simple proof of John’s care and concern.

“That’s nice,” John says softly, his voice nearly a whisper. He sets the tea aside and picks up a triangle of toast, taking a bite. He breaks off a corner and feeds it to Sherlock. Sherlock swirls his tongue around John’s fingers in a display of submission. 

John feeds most of the piece of toast to Sherlock, allowing Sherlock to suck and lave at his fingers with each bite. When the bread is gone, John sets the plate aside, wipes his fingers on the fabric of his jeans.

He is silent for a moment. Sherlock waits.

“Do you know why I’m using the police cuffs?” John asks quietly. Sherlock is far down now, too deep to think, to deduce, and oh, it’s so freeing to be blank, nothing but flesh and need, a base, dumb creature. He shakes his head.

“Answer me, pet.”

His head spins with the effort of forming words. “No, John.”

“Because I want you to remember why I’m punishing you,” he murmurs. “Because I want you to remember how you behaved today. How did you behave, Sherlock?”

Sherlock struggles to remember.

“I flirted with someone who wasn’t you,” he whispers to the floor. 

“You threw yourself at another man in front of me. You acted like a greedy slut and made me very, very jealous. Nobody else gets to touch you but me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, John,” he says quietly. He hangs his head, shame and lust flaring hot and sharp inside him. He watches as his stiff and needy prick pulses out a drop of clear fluid.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John breathes, the tiny hitch in his voice the only indication of his own arousal. Sherlock raises his eyes, meets John’s stormy blue gaze.

“If you’re going to act like a whore, then I have to treat you like one,” he says. “Don’t I?”

Sherlock’s higher brain functions have gone completely offline. He’s unable to form words. John tugs impatiently on the leash. “Answer me.”

“Yes, John,” he breathes.

“Yes, John, what?”

Humiliation burns through him. “Treat me like a whore,” he whispers.

John slides the loop of the leash around his wrist and unbuttons the fly of his jeans, lifting his hips just enough to shove his jeans and pants down to free his straining cock. He wraps the leash around his right hand and pulls Sherlock around roughly to settle in between his thighs, grabbing him by the hair with his left.

“Suck me,” he snarls, and pulls Sherlock’s face down to his cock.

Sherlock lets John invade his mouth, gags as his glans hits the back of his throat, wills himself to relax and allow John to take him, use him, defile him. John groans and thrusts upward, his hand tight in the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head.

John gasps and thrusts up into his mouth. “You love sucking cock, don’t you? You love it, having your mouth fucked until you drool and gag. You love being on your knees for me, swallowing my come and begging for more.”

Reduced to passivity by the handcuffs, Sherlock moans around John’s shaft, hollowing his cheeks and sucking harder, sliding his tongue against the vein on the underside. John is rock hard, blood hot, musky from a day of running around the city. 

“Oh, God,” John groans. “Fuck. Your mouth. Your gorgeous dick-sucking mouth. It’s not fair of me to keep you all to myself. You should be a porn star. You should be on your knees sucking off half of London.”

Sherlock moans and cries out around the cock in his mouth, ripples of sensations shivering through him at the thought of being kept like this, restrained and submissive, having his mouth taken over and over again. He presses himself against the fabric of the chair, thrusting, humping it like an animal, shamelessly seeking friction and pressure against his aching prick.

“You like the idea of that, don’t you?” John murmurs. “Being used, passed around like a cheap fucktoy.”

Sherlock nods frantically as his mouth works John’s shaft, making John shiver and groan.

“No,” John growls softly. “Other men can look at you all they want, they can fantasize about you, but no one else gets you like this,” he rasps. He wraps both hands in Sherlock’s hair and uses him roughly, fucking up into his mouth, thrusting hard as saliva drips down his chin and his eyes water and run. Sherlock is so close to coming from this alone, from the debasement of having his mouth roughly fucked as he ruts desperately against rough fabric, the fleeting friction just enough to inflame his maddening mindless need but not nearly enough to provide relief.

“Yes,” John gasps. “Oh god. Look at you. So desperate for it.” Sherlock’s jaw is aching and his throat burning by the time John stills, gasping, and pushes at Sherlock’s shoulders, bringing his head up and off his cock. “Understand something,” he hisses, wrapping his hand around his own shaft and stroking hard. “You’re my whore and no one else’s. Not ever.”

“All yours,” Sherlock rasps, his voice low and hoarse from rough use. “Always.”

“Damn right,” John says as his fist moves faster, harder. His voice is ragged as he approaches his climax. “I want to come on you. Beg me for it. Tell me you want my come.”

“Come on me,” Sherlock pleads. ”Use me, mark me, make me yours.”

“Open your mouth, slut,” John says and Sherlock obeys, opening his mouth wide as John’s hips stutter and still. “Fuck, yes--” he pants and he’s coming, warm bitter liquid on Sherlock’s tongue and lips and chin and neck as John gasps out short, bitten-off cries and comes and comes and comes.

John is panting heavily, his eyes closed as his breathing slows and evens. He drops the leash into his lap and pulls up his jeans and briefs. He opens his eyes and smiles, his gaze softened by his orgasm but still holding an edge of darkness.

“You should see yourself,” he murmurs. “Covered in my come. Absolutely defiled. My filthy creature.” He leans forward, uses his thumb to collect the semen spattered across Sherlock’s chin, presses the digit to his mouth. Sherlock opens his mouth, licks John’s thumb clean.

“I think the rest stays,” John says. “I like the way it looks on you.” He picks up his now-cold tea, holds it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock drinks. As John puts the cup back on the table, Sherlock sags a bit, rests his cheek against the fabric of John’s jeans. John picks up the leash and pulls Sherlock up.

“No,” John said. Sherlock looks at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re being punished,” John says with just a trace of a snarl. “Sluts don’t get cuddles, and I’m done with you for now.” He pushes Sherlock back with the flat of his hand. “Back to your place, side of the chair.”

Sherlock obeys. Stung by the rejection, Sherlock looks at the floor, his eyes swimming with tears.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees John looking at him with a touch of wary concern.

“Do you remember your safeword?” John asks.

“Yes, John.”

“Do you want to use it?” he asks.

“No, John,” he sniffles.

“I swear I can never tell with you,” John sighs. “In that case, cry all you want. If it’s not your safeword, I really don’t care.” He takes off his watch, checks the time. “You’ve calculated my normal refractory period as forty-eight minutes--which is damn impressive for a man my age, by the way. Considering I’ve gone ten days without... in thirty-eight minutes I’m going to fuck you until you scream.” He picks up the remote, flicks on the telly. “If you behave very, very well until then, I might even let you come.”

***

The minutes crawl by at a torturous pace. The chatter of the telly fades into a blur of white noise, the nuances of language belonging to a land beyond Sherlock’s comprehension. His knees are killing him, his shoulders sore. He’s endured far worse, of course; this is nothing compared to what he’s regularly encountered in the course of his unconventional career, and he welcomes the discomfort, enjoys the way it grounds him, keeps him present in his body, the needs and demands of his flesh keeping him blank and mindless.

All he wants is for John to touch him again, to forgive him and stroke him and let him nuzzle close. The inches between his naked body and John’s clothed leg feel like miles. The drying tears itch on his already sticky face.

 _(He_ is _a drama queen. He likes this part-- no, loves it, the neediness and the whimpering and the tears, the grovelling and base humiliation. The discovery of this side of himself was a shock and a surprise to Sherlock, but not so much to John, who understood so much more than Sherlock ever would about sex and human nature._

_“You’re a person of extremes,” John had explained. “You need to be above everything ninety percent of the time, so when you want to let go and sink low, of course you want to feel absolutely lower than everything else.”)_

John is so clever. John is perfect and good and Sherlock just wants to be good for him, to be forgiven--he is crying again, silently, not moving a muscle or making a sound.

“Eight more minutes,” John says flatly, betraying no emotion or warmth. Sherlock waits and _breathes_ , quiet. His erection has largely subsided, his body as still as his mind, blank and empty, a void, a vessel waiting to for John to fill him, make him whole.

Finally, after Sherlock spends a lifetime on the floor at his feet, John picks up his watch and exhales softly. He slides off the chair and crouches behind Sherlock. There is a metallic click and the handcuffs are pulled away. John rubs Sherlock’s shoulders for a moment, a briskly impersonal touch, before dropping the cuffs to the table with a soft clatter. 

John stands and pulls on the leash. “Come along,” he says.

Sherlock’s knees are stiff as he begins to push himself up off the floor.

“Oh, no,” John says. “Hands and knees, where you belong.”

Sherlock drops his head in abject mortification as his cock stirs to life.

“We _like_ that, do we?”

Sherlock nods minutely. 

John gives a sharp warning tug on the leash. The pressure on his windpipe makes Sherlock fully hard again.

“Answer me,” John says softly, but with undeniable menace.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock mumbles to the floor.

“Come along then. Show me how much you like it.”

Slowly, haltingly Sherlock does as he is told, crawling awkwardly behind his owner, his creator, his everything in the world, face burning with shame, his hard cock and heavy balls bobbing with every shuffling movement as John leads him into their bedroom.

***

John strips the duvet off the bed with one hand, tosses it on the floor.

He tugs on the leash, and the brief pressure on his windpipe makes Sherlock’s head swim for a moment. “Up. On your knees, middle of the bed.”

Sherlock climbs onto the bed and waits quietly, eyes cast down, eyes as John unhooks the leash, loops it through the slats of the headboard and clips it back onto Sherlock’s collar. John turns and rummages through the bedside drawer, pulls out a small plastic bottle. He places it next to Sherlock and steps back, seating himself in the armchair in the corner of the room.

“You’re so hard,” John says evenly, “and no one’s even touched your cock yet.” He huffs out a soft laugh. “You really get off on this, don’t you, slut?”

Sherlock feels flayed open, every secret shame exposed. He is rock hard, unable to hide his intense arousal.

“Yes, John,” he breathes raggedly.

“I’m not going to touch you,” John says. “Do you know why?”

Sherlock does. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

“You don’t. You’ve been a dirty little whore and you don’t deserve to be touched. You don’t deserve to come. Maybe I won’t let you come tonight. Maybe I won’t let you come ever again.”

Sherlock can’t help the mewling whimper that escapes his lips.

“But I do like to watch you. I like to watch you squirm and cry. You’re so beautiful when you’re desperate for it. I love to see you like that. So,” John stretches out his legs, fixes Sherlock with a considering gaze. “Maybe I want to watch you touch yourself, then.”

“Yes, John,” he breathes. “Yes, please, oh please.”

“Put your hands on your body,” John directs him. “Touch yourself all over.”

Sherlock sighs with relief as he closes his eyes, slides his hands down his torso, finally allowed to-

“Everywhere except your cock,” John clarifies, making Sherlock whimper with frustrated need.

He closes his eyes in mortification, burning with shame at displaying himself like this, but his hunger is greater than his shame so Sherlock brings his fingers up, strokes his neck while his other warm hand rubs circles into his chest, his belly. His drags a thumb across the nub of his nipple, and the shivery sensation makes him whimper in the back of his throat. He pinches his nipples, traces the small pebbled peaks with the tips of his fingers. He slides his hands down his bony hips, slides fingers along the soft flesh of his thighs.

“Oh, look how you love this,” John says, his voice gravelly and low. “Putting on a show for me, rubbing yourself like that. Such a needy little slut. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so hard. You want to touch your cock, don’t you?”

“Yes, John,” he pants, fingers pressing into the crease of his groin, yearning for permission, desperate for contact with his aching hard flesh. 

“Open your eyes and look at me.” John orders him. Sherlock obeys. John holds his gaze as he slowly and deliberately undoes his jeans and pulls out his half-hard cock. He gives himself a leisurely pull, tugging at his foreskin, brushes his thumb over the slit.

“Use the lube,” John directs him. “Touch your prick, but don’t you dare come without permission or you won’t again for a long, long time.”

With shaking fingers Sherlock opens the plastic bottle and pours a cold dollop into his hand. He hisses with pleasure as he wraps slick cool fingers around himself and pulls, closing his eyes against the onslaught of sensation. Showers of electric sparks cascade through his body, making him shiver.

“Oh, that’s nice,” John murmurs approvingly. “You like that, don’t you, whore?”

“Yes. Oh god, yes,” Sherlock shudders as he fists his cock, stroking slowly, twisting and pulling his foreskin on the upstroke. “It’s good. It’s so good.” His hips push upwards as he fucks into his hand while John watches. Sherlock hears a low groan and opens his eyes, sees John working his own cock, now at full attention.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” John says, his voice dark and ragged. “You thought you were above this before you met me. I did this to you. I dragged you down, made you dirty, made you want this.” John’s working himself in earnest now, long firm pulls from base to tip, his breathing gone deep and uneven. “Now you think about it all the time, don’t you? You can’t stop thinking about how good it feels, how much you want to be fucked. The no sex rule. It’s not about me. It’s about you, because you can’t stop how much you want it all the time.”

Sherlock thrusts into his slicked fist and whimpers, low and broken. Because it’s true. All of it. He can’t shut it off anymore, in some tiny room of his mind he always wants John, craves the feeling of John touching him, fucking him, loving him. He is a slave now, not to John but to his own desire. He is helpless, powerless against the waves of pleasure washing over him. He cries out brokenly as his orgasm begins to build, coiling heat low in his spine.

“John,” he moans. “John, I-”

“No.” John snaps. “Stop.”

Sherlock grips the base of his shaft and presses hard, just barely manages to stave off his climax. His balls ache and throb with the denial of release, and a choked whimper escapes his lips.

“Settle down,” John says firmly. “Hands at your sides.”

Sherlock obeys, his breath coming in thick, hitching gasps. He feels the sweat cooling on his neck as he tries to breathe deeply, tries to calm himself. The shivery tightness of climax recedes and his breathing evens. He again becomes aware of his back and knees, aching from kneeling for so long.

“Good boy,” John murmurs. “Such a sweet pet. Maybe I will let you come later on, for being so good. But first I’m going to fuck you straight into that mattress. Shove my cock up your arse and pound you till you scream. You want that, don’t you?”

“Yes, John.”

“Ask me, slut. Beg for it.”

“Please, John,” he whimpers. “Please fuck me, please give me your cock.”

John is stroking himself slower now now, a gentle slide of his hand. He swipes a thumb across the wet slit, spreads the sticky precome around the head as he fondles himself. He hums softly for a moment as if in contemplation.

“Put your fingers inside yourself,” John tells him. “Lots of lube. Make yourself open and ready for my cock like a good whore.”

Sherlock picks up the bottle. He’s shaking so hard, he almost drops it on the bed, but he manages to get it open, re-slicking the fingers of his right hand. He twists his torso, reaches behind himself and spreads lube across his opening, breathing out as he pushes a finger inside. He gasps a bit at the sensation, the coolness of his finger against the heat inside his body. It stings a bit as he pushes deeper, the angle awkward. 

He closes his eyes and imagines how he looks right now to John, filthy and wanton as he fucks his own arse, and the humiliation is brutal, scorching. He has never been so aroused in his life as he slides a second finger in, whimpering a little at the burning sting. The sting becomes a hot stretched fullness and he cries out in pain and pleasure as he rocks back against his own hand.

“Jesus Christ,” John breathes. “You’re the dirtiest thing I’ve ever seen. Tell me how good it feels, fucking yourself like that while I watch.”

“It’s so good,” he moans as he pushes and twists his fingers inside himself, making his cock twitch and pulse dribbles of precome. “It’s so good.”

Sherlock hears the sounds of John standing and pulling off his shirt and jeans. Warm fingers touch him, brush sweat-damp hair off his forehead as he writhes and moans.

John’s soft lips press against Sherlock’s hot forehead and cheek, find his mouth, swallow his soft, pleading cries.

“Beautiful man. How can I not touch you?” John whispers. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” His voice is soft, loving. “Tell me you’re sorry and I’ll touch you.”

The sudden tectonic shift from cold command to warm tenderness pulls Sherlock apart, destabilizes him down to the very center of his being. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he babbles, willing to do anything for forgiveness, for love, tears leaking from his eyes. He’s spinning off his axis, out of control. “I’m sorry, forgive me John, I’m so sorry, I need you, please-”

Gentle hands stroke his back, trace the old silvered scars that mark his flesh. “All right, love,” John whispers. “It’s all right, shh.” The mattress springs creak as John climbs onto the bed and settles himself behind Sherlock. Fingers wrap around his wrists, stilling the desperate push of his hand. “My turn,” he whispers, and guides Sherlock’s fingers out and away, positioning his arms in front of him on the bed, sliding a pillow under his hips. He kisses the back of Sherlock’s neck and gently pushes his head down to the mattress, nudges his knees apart.

“My sweet thing,” John sighs, “my angel.” One hand grips Sherlock’s hip as the other guides his cock to Sherlock’s slick loosened opening. John pushes in, sliding home in one slow, insistent push, making Sherlock keen and shudder at the intensity of heat and pressure and burning fullness.

“Oh, God. God. Fuck.” John moans, low and ragged. “I love watching you stretch around me. You take my cock so well.” He’s fully inside now, his hips flush against Sherlock’s arse, bollocks bumping gently into his perineum. “You feel so good, you’re made just for me. I want to fuck you forever.” His hands tighten on Sherlock’s hips and he begins to thrust, so slow, so deliberate. He kisses Sherlock’s shoulder, licks the sweat from his skin. “My perfect creature, my beautiful man.”

Sherlock is beyond language now, utterly nonverbal as John fucks him with aching, deliberate slowness. Each roll of John’s hips makes Sherlock cry out in ragged, broken sobs as he pushes back against the measured thrusts. He is broken, devoid of thought, reduced to a rutting animal focused only on the heat, the fullness, the friction of John moving inside his body.

“Jesus,” John breathes against his neck. “So hot for me, so slick, so fucked open. I could do this for hours, you know. Maybe never let you come at all. Just tie you up and use you all like this all night long.” Sherlock moans and arches, pushes back against John’s thrusts in wordless entreaty, his entire world reduced to this moment, this act, this connection between them.

John fucks him like that for what feels like hours, murmuring gentle nonsense words in his ear, wrapping him in a endless timeless haze of arousal and pleasure. Sherlock is soaked in sweat, his limbs are leaden and exhausted, the silvery storm of orgasm just barely out of reach. He needs to come, he has to come or he’s going to die, he can’t take another moment of this cruel delicious torture.

Sherlocks swims up through the haze of his mindless need, finds a single word.

“Please,” he moans through parched lips. “Please, please, please.”

“All right, darling,” John whispers. “Lie on your side,” He pulls out and guides Sherlock’s wooden limbs, holding him as he all but collapses, knees and elbows aching, and spoons up behind him, nudging Sherlock’s top leg forward a bit.

He pulls Sherlock’s hips flush with his own, angles up just so, and stars explode across Sherlock’s brain as John finds his prostate with every thrust. He’s so close, he’s so very very--

“Please.” It’s all Sherlock can remember, his entire existence distilled down to his overwhelming need, the burning ache in his belly, the tightness in his balls, the single word he has to convey his desperate want. “Please,” he begs, almost sobbing with desperation. “Please.”

John finally takes pity on his broken mewling creature, and brings a hand to Sherlock’s stiff, leaking prick. “Is this what you need?” he murmurs into sweat-soaked curls. Sherlock shudders, almost convulsing, as John strokes him.

“Please,” he gasps, and he’s on the knife’s edge, he’s falling, he can’t stop now, not even if--

“Yes,” John whispers. “Yes. Filthy gorgeous thing, come for me.”

The incredible tension in Sherlock’s body crests, bursts and he’s coming, coming so hard the pleasure almost becomes pain as his orgasm is torn from him, and he’s screaming unaware as his body turns itself inside out and he comes and comes and comes, thick hot spurts on his belly and chest and he’s still coming, John fucking him hard through it, each thrust against his prostate triggering another wave of sparkling electric bliss. 

The aftershocks are still singing through his nerves as John’s thrusts grow frantic, his breathing ragged. “Sherlock,” he moans, deep and broken. “ _Sherlock_.” He thrusts hard one last time and stills, climaxing with a deep pained moan, pulsing and spilling deep inside Sherlock’s shivering, boneless body.

The two of them lay still for several long minutes, utterly demolished and panting.

John is the first to stir. He shifts, groans a bit as he pulls out of Sherlock’s limp still body. Sherlock lays quiet and unresponsive as John unbuckles the collar, kisses the curve of his shoulder. “Sherlock? You okay, love?”

A moment passes in silence, then Sherlock’s body begins to quiver and hitch. John tenses, strokes his damp hair, concerned. “Are you all right? Did I--”

Sherlock shakes his head as the laughter starts to spill uncontrollably out of him.

“Oh,” John murmurs as understanding dawns. “I knew it was good, but I didn’t know it was giggle-fit good.”

“It’s just--” Sherlock tries to calm himself, fails, gives in to the helpless giggling. This happens sometimes when the sex is particularly, mind-meltingly fantastic.

“I know, sweetheart,” John says. “Oxytocin and whatnot. Just breathe.”

Sherlock’s sides shake and heave with laughter. After a few moments John can’t help but join him.

“You’re lucky I’m man enough to take hysterical laughter after sex as a compliment,” he says as Sherlock continues to giggle uncontrollably.

“It is,” Sherlock says breathlessly, gifting John with a goofy, open grin. “It really, really is.”

“Are you okay for a bit while I run a bath and order some dinner?” John asks after Sherlock’s fit mellows and finally subsides.

“I’m wonderful,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice deep and raspy from exertion.

“I know,” John says and tips Sherlock’s head back gently to kiss him, mouth warm and soft. “Stay wonderful for five minutes and I’ll be right back.”

***

John is fantastic and perfect and very, very good at this, and he has Chinese food ordered and Sherlock in a hot bath before the drop hits.

The shaky empty moment comes and goes, John kissing away embarrassed tears, and equilibrium slowly returns. Sherlock sighs and leans the back of his head against John’s chest--the old clawfoot tub is big enough for two, but just barely--and lets John clean him gently with a wet flannel.

“You’re amazing,” John says, wrapping an arm tightly around Sherlock. “I love you.”

Sherlock takes John’s arm where it rests across his chest, turns it palm up. “I love you,” he murmurs, mouthing the words against the soft skin on the inside of John’s forearm.

“Here,” John says, dropping the flannel and picking up the juice next to the tub. He brings the straw to Sherlock’s lips. “Drink.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “A juice box?” he asks, his tone gently mocking. “Are we in primary school, John?”

“And there he is,” John murmurs fondly. “Welcome back. Fluid and sugar. You need both. Drink.”

Sherlock sighs in assent, wraps his lips around the straw and drinks. 

“Doing all right?” John asks after he puts the empty container back on the floor.

“Marvellous.” He tilts his head back and smiles at John. “How about you? Worth waiting ten days for?”

“Without a doubt.” He chuckles and picks up Sherlock’s hand, threads their fingers together. “And I hope you learned your lesson, young man. Next time you need a favour from an officer of the law, are you going to flirt with him to get what you want?”

Sherlock hums, pretends to consider the question. 

“Absolutely,” he purrs, turning to kiss the base of John’s neck.

John chuckles and presses his lips into soft damp curls.

“That’s my good boy,” he whispers into Sherlock’s ear.


End file.
